CHAPTER VI.
A HERITAGE OF SHAME.
We will not linger over the sad details of the ceremonies attendingMrs. Allandale's burial. Suffice it to say that on Tuesday afternoonher remains were borne away to Greenwood, and laid to rest, in thefamily lot, beside those gone before, after which Edith returned toher desolate abode more wretched than it is possible to describe.
She had made up her mind, however, that she could not remain there anylonger--that she must find a place for herself in a differentlocality and among a different class of people. This she knew shecould do, since she had the promise of permanent work and now had onlyherself to care for.
The change, too, must be made upon the following day, as Mr. Bryantwould expect her at his office on Thursday morning.
There was much to be done, many things to be packed for removal, whilewhat she did not care to retain must be disposed of; and, eager toforget her grief and loneliness--for she knew she would be ill if shesat tamely down and allowed herself to think--she began at once, uponher return from the cemetery, to get ready to leave the cheerless homewhere she had suffered so much.
She decided, first of all, to pack all wearing apparel; and, on goingto her closet to begin her work, the first thing her eyes fell uponwas the casket of letters, which her mother had requested her to bringto her just before she died.
The sight of this unnerved her again, and, with a moan of pain, shesank upon her knees and bowed her head upon it.
But the fountain of her tears had been so exhausted that she could notweep; and, finally becoming somewhat composed, she took the beautifulbox out into the room and sat down near a light to examine itscontents.
"Mamma evidently wanted these letters destroyed," she murmured, as shethrew back the cover. "I will do as she wished, but I will first lookthem over, to be sure there is nothing of value among them."
She set about her task at once and found that they were mostlymissives from intimate friends, with quite a number written by herselfto her mother, while she was away at boarding-school.
All these she burned after glancing casually at them. Nothing thenremained in the box but a small package of six or eight time-yellowedepistles bound together with a blue ribbon.
"What peculiar writing!" Edith observed, as she separated one fromthe others and examined the superscription upon the envelope. "Why, itis postmarked Rome, Italy, away back in 18--, and addressed to mammain London! That must have been when she was on her wedding tour!"
Her curiosity was aroused, and, drawing the closely-written sheet fromits inclosure, she began to read it.
It was also dated from Rome, and the girl was soon deeply immersed ina story of intense and romantic interest.
She readily understood that the letter had been written by a dearfriend of Mrs. Allandale's youth--one who had been both school androommate, and who unreservedly confided all her secrets andexperiences to her bosom companion. And yet, it was strange, Ediththought, that she had never heard her mother speak of this friend.
It seemed that there had been quite an interval in theircorrespondence, for the writer spoke of the surprise which her friendwould experience upon receiving a letter from her from that locality,when she had probably believed her to be in her own home, living thequiet life of a dutiful daughter.
Then it spoke of an "ideal love" that "had come to beautify her life;"of a noble and wealthy artist who had won her heart, but who, for someunaccountable reason, had not been acceptable to her parents, and theyhad sternly rejected his proposal for her hand.
Next came the _denouement_, which told that the girl had eloped withher lover and flown with him to Italy.
"I suppose it was not the right thing to do, darling," the missiveran; "but papa, you know, is a very austere, relentless man, and whenhe has once made up his mind, there is no hope of ever turning him; soI have taken my fate into my own hands--or, rather, I have given itinto the keeping of my dear one, and we are so happy, Edith darling,and lead an ideal life in this quaint old city of the seven hills, atwhose feet runs, like a thread of gold, the yellow Tiber. My husbandis everything to me--so noble, so kind, so generous; it is so verystrange that papa could not like him--that is the only drop ofbitterness in my overflowing cup of happiness."
There was much more of the same tenor, from which it is not necessaryto quote; and, after reading the letter through, Edith took upanother, interested to know how the pretty love-story of her mother'sfriend would terminate. The second one, written a month later, wasmore subdued, but not less tender, although the young girl thought shedetected a vein of sadness running through it.
The next two or three mentioned the fact that the writer was left muchalone, her "dear one" being obliged to be away a great deal of thetime, upon sketching expeditions, etc.
After an interval of three months another letter spoke in the fondestmanner of the "dear little stranger," that had come to bless and cheerher loneliness--"lonely, dear Edith, because my husband's artmonopolizes his time, while he is often absent from home a week at atime in connection with it, and I do not know what I should do, inthis strange country away from all my friends, if it were not for myprecious baby girl whom I have named for you, as I promised, in memoryof those happy days which we spent together at Vassar."
"Then mamma's friend had a daughter, who was also named Edith," musedour fair heroine, breaking in upon her perusal of the letter. "Iwonder if she is living, and where? Those letters tell me nothing,give no last name by which to identify either the writer or herhusband."
She turned back to the epistle, and read on:
"She is such a comfort to me," it ran, "and gives me an object inlife--something besides myself and my trou"--these last three wordswere crossed out--"to think about. When will you come to Rome, dearEdith? Your last letter was dated from St. Petersburgh. I am veryanxious that you should see your little namesake, and make me thatlong-promised visit."
There was scarcely a word in this letter referring to her husband,except those three crossed-out words; but it overflowed with praisesand love of her beautiful child, although it was evident that theyoung wife was far from experiencing the conjugal happiness that hadpermeated her previous missives.
There was only one more letter in the package, and Edith's face wasvery grave and sympathetic as she drew it from its envelope.
"I am sure that her husband proved to be negligent of and unkind toher," she murmured, "and that she repented her rashness in leaving herhome and friends. Oh, I wonder why girls will be so foolish andheadstrong as to go directly contrary to the advice of those who lovethem best, and run away with men of whom they know comparativelynothing!"
With a sigh of regret for the unfortunate wife, of whom she had beenreading, she unfolded the letter in her hands and began to read,little dreaming what strange things she was to learn from it.
"Oh, Edith darling," it began, "how can I tell you?--how can I writeof the terrible calamity that has overtaken me? My heart is broken--mylife is ruined, and all because I would not heed those who loved me,and who, I now realize, were my best and kindest counselors. I couldbear it for myself, perhaps--I could feel that it was but a justjudgment upon me for my obstinacy and unfilial conduct, and so dragout my weary existence in submission to the inevitable; but when Ithink of my innocent babe--my lovely Edith--your namesake! oh! I wouldnever have had her christened thus, I could not have insulted you so,had I known! I feel almost inclined to doubt the justice and love ofGod--if, indeed, there is a God."
The letter here looked as if the writer must have been overcome withher wretchedness, and wept tears of bitter despair, for it was badlyblurred and defaced.
But Edith, her face now absolutely colorless, read eagerly on.
"I cannot bear it and live," the writer resumed, "and so--I am goingto--die. Edith, my husband--no, my betrayer, I ought rather tosay--has deserted me! He has gone to Florence with a beautifulItalian countess, who is also very rich, and is living with her therein her elegant palace, just outside the
city. He has long beenattentive to her, but I never dreamed how far matters had gone untilyesterday, when I came upon them, unawares, in Everard's studio, andheard him tell her how he loved her--that 'I was not his wife, onlyhis ----' I cannot write the vile word that makes my flesh creep withhorror. Then I learned of his base conduct to me, whom, as heexpressed it, he 'had cleverly deceived, and coaxed to run away withhim to while away his solitude during his sojourn in a strangecountry.' It is a wonder that I did not drop dead where I stood--slainby the dreadful truth; but the wicked lovers did not dream of beingoverheard, and so I listened to the whole of their vile plot and thenstole away to try and decide upon a course of action. When Everardcame home, I charged him with his perfidy. Then--pity me, Edith--heboldly told me that he was weary of me; that he would pay me ahandsome sum of money and I might take my child and go back to myparents! Oh! I cannot go into details, or tell you what I havesuffered--no one will ever know that but God! Why, oh, why does Hepermit such evil to exist? He does not--there is no God! there is noGod!"
There was a huge blot here, as if the pen had fallen from the fingersthat had dared to deny the existence of Deity; then the missive wasresumed in a different tone, as if a long interval of thought hadintervened.
"Edith, I am calmer now, and I am going to ask a great favor of you.You are happily married, you have a noble husband and abundant means,and you know we once pledged ourselves to befriend each other, ifeither should ever find herself in trouble. Presuming upon thatpledge, I am going to ask if you will take my darling, my poorinnocent little waif, bring her up as your own, and never let her knowanything about the stain that rests upon her birth? She is pure; sheis not to blame for the sins of her parents, and I cannot bear thethought of her growing up to learn of her heritage of shame, as shewould be sure to do if I should live and rear her as my child. Yourlast letter tells me that you will be in Rome in less than afortnight. I cannot meet you--I can never again meet any one whom Ihave known; and so, Edith--I am going to die. I give my child toyou--I believe you will not refuse my last request--and you will findher, with the woman who nursed me when she was born, at No. 2 Via delVecchia. The woman has my instructions--she believes that I am onlygoing away on a little trip with my husband; but you will show herthis letter, and prove to her that you have authority to take thechild away. When you go home, you will take her with you, as your own,and no one need ever know that she is not your own. Do not ever revealthe truth to her; let her grow up happy and care-free, like othergirls who are of honorable birth; and if the dead can watch over andshield the living, you and yours shall be so shielded and watched overby your lost but still loving. BELLE."
"She was my mother! I am that child of shame!" came hoarsely fromEdith's bloodless lips as she finished reading that dreadful letter.
Then the paper slipped from her nerveless fingers, her head droppedunconsciously upon the table before her, and she knew nothing moreuntil, long afterward, when she awoke from her swoon to find her lampgone out and the room growing cold, while her heart felt as if it hadbeen paralyzed in her bosom.